Flat Line and Hooters

Some kind woman (I am assuming) wrote an informative and well-meaning comment on my other blog, Everyday Aspergers, about rapid cycling bipolar. After that I spent an hour being triggered by thoughts of yet another feasible diagnosis, and that’s likely why I am still braless with teeth not brushed, obsessively blogging. I asked my partner Dave, (whom I have known for over a year), if he suspected I might have bipolar, and he responded, “No. You are very stable. You are like a flat line.” That immediately relieved me. And I’ve been reassuring myself ever since with the word flat line. I also remembered that I used to ask Mike, my former husband of almost nineteen years, that same question, and he continually reassured me, “No. Not at all.” But just to make certain I asked Alien Hippy, my cool Aspie Sister, who pretty much talked to me everyday for hours for over two years when we first found each other, and she kindly reassured me, “No.” Three reassurances and I am good to go! So thankful as I didn’t want to have to start ANOTHER blog, which I would have, I’m certain.

I’ve been a bit worried that I don’t have enough relationships to talk about on this blog, until I realized and reviewed and reviewed again, even in my dream state, that relationships include the typical first thought, such as boyfriends, former husbands, kids, neighbors and friends (both online and in-person), but also things like dogs (Violet, aka Spastic Colon), random strangers, doctors, food servers, checkers at the grocery store, teachers, self, imaginary friends and so forth! So again, I am good to go!

Yesterday, I kept asking Dave, “Are you acting like this because you know I will be quoting you on my blog?” He answered that indeed he was being himself. And then we both cracked up because ‘his self’ (Aspie Self) is even more hilarious than my self! For instance, when we returned home from the store with four movies for our lazy Saturday, I said, “I could build us a fire, if I had a poker.” And he said, “I’ll be your poker.” And I said, giggling, “You are such a tease!” And he said, “What do you mean?” And I said, “Do you realize what you just said?” And he said, “No. I meant I could poke the fire out!” And then we both busted up, (on the floor rolling), laughing.

There were a few times yesterday I was rather borderline rude to Dave, but fortunately for the most part he is, let’s say 90% of the time, in a decent mood and can tolerate me. I told him point blank last night, “You know you’ve put me through hell this last year.” He responded in his traditional fashion, pointing an imaginary finger gun to his head and joking, “I’m going to go shoot myself now.” I think we are getting to the point that we both find it’s easier to communicate in frank quirkiness followed by humor than to stuff everything inside.

Throughout the day yesterday, I checked in with Dave, “Are you happy? Are you bored?” As long as I live, I cannot stop worrying about how another person is feeling in my company. Fortunately with Dave comes this point-blank frankness, so I know what comes out of his mouth is total truth—however cactus prickly that might feel at times.

Yesterday we promised each other we would leave the house by noon, and Dave added: “And we HAVE to stay out at least four hours.” We ended up staying out for about an hour and profusely complimented each other for having showered, dressed, and looking ‘normal.’

It’s hard for us to leave the house. Luckily, for Dave, he has addictions, including caffeinated sugary drinks (that he drips everywhere—door nobs, steering wheel, white carpet), so he is forced to leave the house to support his habit. Though I still don’t get why he goes and buys a handful EVERY day instead of just buying a case of the crap. I figure it’s a combination of needing to stim and partake in said ritual of buying super-bad-for-you drinks AND deep deep denial. And luckily for me, I have three teenage boys, so I am equally forced (without addiction) to leave the house. Can you see my evil smirk?

To add to my evilness, I’ve come to the cruel place of calling my boyfriend “Scabby.” It’s how I relieve my interior stress, as he, like 40% to 50% of people on the spectrum, picks his skin. I researched to make sure and to soothe my hyper active brain that was catastrophizing over the skin picking ‘ickiness.’ So now, if we are in a back and forth game of just-for-fun name calling, something we frequent a few times a day, I can get him to shut up and jump up and down like a child who wants candy, just by mouthing “Scabby.” I am rather proud of myself. I count myself as fortunate, as I am significantly older than Dave, and he has yet to say any names related to the age factor. This makes him kinder than me, because I know if the roles were reversed I would be tagging him with names like: Wrinkly prune, saggy boobs, and liver spotted freak. But that’s just me. Like I said, he’s kinder than me.

So yesterday, we promised each other we’d leave the house. And we did! When we were trying to figure out where to go after renting movies, going to the mall (to laugh it up in joke stores) and buying popcorn, (Which took us ten minutes in the snack aisle, as first I queried why is the popped popcorn in the chip aisle and the un-popped popcorn in the aisle way over there? And then I had to have an (out loud) dissertation about GMO corn and how people who work in popcorn factories that add butter to popcorn die of cancer.), I kind of stirred us back home when I said, “Well, we had such a good time and I don’t want to risk changing that by being around a bunch of people.” And then I named off places, like the hardware store, and Dave checked each single one off our outing list, stating basically how they each sucked based on the potentiality of us Aspies being affected by others.

At that point, he glanced over at me in the driving seat, because I freak out when I am not behind the wheel, and I said, “I am sad.” And he asked, “Why?” And I told him, “I’m afraid because I am feeling happy and I am afraid of when it will end.” And he answered, “So you’re feeling normal then,” and laughed.

Yesterday, right after I parked at the mall, we stepped out of the car and for the third time I asked Dave about my sweater. He said, “It’s completely fine, there is nothing wrong with it.” I said, “Are you sure, because a friend made a comment about hooters and now I am afraid to wear it.” And Dave said, “Yes, I am sure.” Well, not five seconds later, as we’re crossing the street, this young lady glances at me with a huge smile and says, “I really like your sweater.” I glared at Dave. And then, two minutes later, a man walking towards us with his lady friend, smiles huge and says, “Great sweater.” And by this point I am blushing and looking at Dave, and he says, “Well, now I’m not sure. What do I know?” And I am thinking there are some drawbacks of not being with an NT. I honestly still don’t know if the sweater is cute, provocative or something else? Dave said it’s a double bonus because the sweater is cute and I have big boobs. That doesn’t help.

So I asked Dave if he’d model the sweater I wore yesterday for you all and his response was rather ideal: “I think I am really going to like this new blog of yours.”

The Hooters Sweater. Imagine it on a woman.

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